Be Careful What You Dream
by swallowedsong
Summary: Captain Duckling/Swan Princess/Labyrinth AU Mash-Up. Emma, the Swan Princess makes a deal with The Dark One, setting her free from the curse he placed upon her. She must find and kill The Goblin King before her twenty first birthday. On the Eve of her celebration ball, The Goblin King comes to her and whisks her away into his realm.


**Disclaimer: Own nothing, etc. **

* * *

_Once upon a time, there was a princess, beloved by her family and her people, ripped away from her life by a dark force. Returning to them, surrounded in mystery, she now lives in a tower, surrounded by books. Books filled with magical incantations and descriptions of faraway realms._

_Enchanted realms and cursed realms, dream realms and nightmare realms._

_Her given name is Emma, though her people call her the Swan Princess. Her story, a grand legend among all the kingdoms, tells the tale of the cursed princes. A magical princess, the savior of her people, vanquishing The Dark One's curse upon her own person. A princess, traveling across realms and saving her family and her people from their suspended existence._

_Since her celebration ball, the kingdom's holiday, her subjects have not laid eyes on the Swan Princess, but they speak of her figure. They speak of hair of spun gold, of emerald eyes, and of a fierce disposition._

_To this day, she remains in her tower, constantly seeking. On a nameless quest, kept a secret from her people, time is running out. You see, the tale of the Swan Princess is a myth, carefully crafted to hide the truth._

_A truth that is much more gruesome than legend._

**I. The Curse of the Swan Princess**

The story begins on her fifth birthday. As with many stories, the wheels spin into motion much earlier than her birthday. The fate of her life determined by blood feuds spanning both centuries, and others merely decades. A hint of the tethers that entwine between the lives of her family, the lives of her enemies, and the lives of those she has yet to meet – already formed long before Queen Snow and King David save Snow's kingdom, future, and Emma's birthright.

For Princess Emma, her life forever changes on the day of her fifth birthday celebration. Even now if asked, she can describe very few of the actual events of the party. She'll tell you that the gathering a haze of family members and friends. Some impressions imprinted themselves onto her memory; however, as if by magic. Her favorite memory of the day is a small wolf gifted upon her by her godmother Ruby. Red and made of glass, the trinket still remains in a place of honor in her room, decorating her vanity. It was gifted to her with the hushed words of The Widow Lucas, "The wolf is your friend. Her magic is limited; however, so you must only use her a time of great need. All you must do is whisper into her ear and we will come to you."

Other memories from the day are more commonplace. She remembers her parents serving tea in delicate cups, white with a swirling and curling blue pattern. If pressed, she will tell you that she remembers the way her mother sounded, voice screaming as a red mist filled the circular space of in her turret. She'll share with you her memory of the flash of her father's sword before flying out of his hands, through the air; landing wedged between stones in the wall, where it remains this day, a reminder of her family's tragic past.

Though she remembers the next part clearly, she will never recount this part of the tale. She relayed these memories to her parents on one occasion, and she has vowed to never speak them again. She remembers gold skin, cold and scaly to the touch, her mother screaming as hands engulfed hers, pulling her farther and farther from her parents. She remembers the sound of his laughter, a constant echo in her mind, filling the void of memory over the passing years, maniacal and twittering.

_You knew there was a price, dearies. I helped ensure the queen's demise and the return of your kingdom. The rules are simple and I must come to collect._

**.**

Upon her return from captivity, or what appeared to be such freedom, her parents and her agree that the Kingdom's curiosity must be appeased. While she shares with them later the true nature of her return, of her reprieve and the continued threat, through their conference they determine that the Kingdom must know nothing and they must throw a ball to celebrate the princess's return.

She relays her version of the tale in the receiving room, her parents seated on their gilded thrones, crowns gleaming with the sunlight though the large stained glass windows adorning the room. They had summoned her to their chambers to hear her tale, but she insisted that she could only share her story with them in this room. Their chambers too intimate, too small to contain her fears. She kneels in front of her parents and shares her story.

_Kill the Goblin King, my precious swan, and you will be free. The monster said, dark eyes glittering in gold skin. Your curse will be forever lifted, and you will never be in danger from me, unless you place yourself within my path again._

_He had caught them in the woods, her and the huntsman Graham. He had been visiting her for years, raised by wolves and visiting her corner of the wood while his pack traveled on to their winter home._

She was not in love with him, though they asked and she answered honestly. She tells them that she could have been. It was almost possible, the last time that they met, that she was beginning to feel a pull towards him, drawn in ways beyond the odd friendship that they struck up so many years before that. However, she continues, a cursed existence cast a shadow upon that connection, one that she could never shake. Then, one day, that fateful day, it failed to matter anymore.

_Too late for thoughts of love, The Dark One had been moments away from cursing him, too, when she found herself glowing with a white light. This light spread from her fingertips, her hair transformed into the brightest glow, and in that moment she wished for Graham to be reunited with his family, for him to always be safe from the monster's grasp._

_Before their eyes, hers and The Dark One's, he was transformed. No longer man, but wolf._

_Control yourself, the monster said his interest in her shifting, his eyes glittering with excitement. I'm a fair man at times. I'll offer you another deal. If you can rid me of a pest, I shall set you free._

_Who, she asked, voice still shaking with power unused._

_Why, The Goblin King, he exclaims, eyes flashing bright red with anger before muting to their regular deep black._

_And how do I find this goblin king?_

_You don't find him, dearie. He finds you._

Raising her eyes to watch her parents as she carefully relays her tale, she can pinpoint the precise moment in her tale that the gravity of the situation reached them. Her mother's eyes, seemingly permanently misted with tears, finally freeing them to slide, down her cheeks as she rushes from her perch and, arms wrapped around her, Emma finally gives into the warmth of her embrace. Her father soon joins them, one arm around their bodies, the other curling around her head, as he cradles her, same as he would a small babe.

"We shall tell no one," her mother declares. And so it is done.

**.**

When she returns from her captivity, her parents are curious. A curiosity which she acknowledges as their right, having watched as _he _ripped her from their arms so many years ago. Emma does not _blame _them for the mix of celebration and caution they display; overjoyed to have her back but yet so protective, as if she could disappear again at any moment. Their fears are not unfounded, in point of fact, they are entirely capable of being proven true if she fails in her quest. If that happens, the unspeakable future in which she is forever his, she knows that they will likely be forever broken.

Surrounded by the pomp befitting a conquering hero, with the twirling silks of courtiers dancing the waltz, her parents hover near her place at the grand table. She is aware their presence, never too far away from her side. Her parents ask, just once, while they feast upon the roast and drink wine pressed the year of her birth. They ask what it felt like to be a swan, to glide along the water by day and to walk within the woods by night. Her mother's tone gentle and curious, with eyes shimmering full of tears that never quite fall, as her father's face stoic as his hand rests on her shoulder, gripping her skin every few moments, unwilling to let her go.

Her hand, clenching in her lap - open and closed, open and closed - under the table as to not concern them, Emma wants to tell them that it is not as simple as remembering the sensation of being herself and yet not herself at the same time, thinking and feeling as a human, but constricted by form. She wants to tell the of the pain of transformation, knowing that she had but a few precious hours to use her legs, walking or running through the forest, learning just enough to get by in the world. However, she knows the truth would only hurt, would make the tears in her mother's eyes fall.

She also never asks them in return, exactly how it was her own person came to be a price for payment, her body and existence a debt owed, owed to the darkest practitioner of magic known to the realms. Instead, she places her hand on her fathers, where it still rests on her shoulder, and asks, "Would you show me the steps to this dance? I find myself quite restless.

As he guides her down the steps to the dance floor, he chooses a corner, away from most of the dancers to practice. Gliding through basic steps they sway to the music slowly, half-speed, but smoothly.

"Father," she gently requests moments later, "I wonder if I could request an official audience with you and my mother tomorrow."

She can see his shoulders tighten at her formal request, and she feels a small twinge at the injury she has inflicted upon him, but she has limited time and no resources beyond her parents and a task that seems increasingly insurmountable with every moment that she spends at a ball celebrating, or under her parent's protection from _everything_.

"Emma," his voice is tight, "You need not make such formal requests. We are your parents after all." He tries to smile and she responds in like measure, possibly more hesitant, but not without some _feeling_, some recognized kinship born from their shared blood.

Lips twisting, she cedes his point, "Apologies. I have not conversed with anyone, save for _him_, in fifteen years."

Sadness written everywhere, across his features, in the tension of his arms as he twirls an extra circle, whirling to the music before he stops dancing and holds her hands to plead," While you mother and I, our entire kingdom, was frozen in mourning."

She laughs sadly, softly. "Indeed," she says, "Quite strange to consider that we are now a mere eight years apart in age."

"Yes," he agrees, "But our memories of that day are so fresh. Please forgive your mother if she sometimes thinks of you that way. As our baby girl with pigtails and curls, and a love of mischief."

As they continue dancing, she holds his eyes, "I will try."

"Now," her father continues, "About this request. Whatever you require, I hope you understand, will be yours as long as it is in our power to grant your wish"

Her lips twitch into another smile, if only briefly. "I would like to train in swordplay."

"That, my dear," he says gently, "May definitely be arranged."

**.**

That night Emma dreams of Graham. Poor Graham. Handsome Graham. Whose only trouble was to cross paths with her in the woods surrounding her prison lake. Before falling asleep, she had been thinking of him, of how she saved him from The Dark One, of how in doing so she trapped him in another form of curse. Thinking of her task at hand, of the monster's request, of the knowledge that the only way to truly live free of threat is to take the life of another.

The dream is the same as previous nights, vague impressions of conversations that they used to have, full moon in the sky, the tree branches blocking the light until it falls into strange patterns. Graham ages rapidly in her dream, starting with the young boy that she first met, curly mop of hair and speaking no language that she understood. He quickly becomes the young man of recent years – earnest and pleading, claiming that he _can _save her and _will _save her.

Until he disappears, fading into mist, and the dream morphs before her eyes into something more dangerous, more _true_, as she watches the final scene unfold before her eyes. The scene that set her on her path.

_Kill the Goblin King and your curse will be lifted. Forever._

She awakes, screaming into her pillow, skin heated and flushed, hair damp against her forehead.

**.**

The following morning, after her nightmare, she awakes to find a folded pile of clothes on her bed stand. The soft breeches and loose grey shirt resemble the clothing that her father's knights wear underneath their armor. Atop the pile is a short note, written in her father's scrawl, informing her to meet them at the training circle next to the stables at first light the following day.

**.**

The family continues to confirm reports already circulating, a tale of magical enchantments and broken curses. A tale that Emma, The Swan Princess, escaped the hands of The Dark One and traveled dangerous roads back to her kingdom and her people, saving them from their curse, frozen in time for fifteen years. The tale was simple to spread, as Emma made her way back to her kingdom, she crossed through several realms, and though she avoided people as much as possible, traveling by overgrown forest paths, she sometimes hitched with farmers on their way to market, jumping on and off carts before reaching the bustling towns.

Still, stories of her magic and her beauty spread. They spread until she made her way up to the barrier between realms and, placing a hand upon the invisible wall, broke the curse on her people with a burst of energy. Like before, it was bright and white, shimmering all of the colors of the world, spreading across villages, through the forest, to the castle where her parents existed frozen in time.

**.**

Her parents issue a royal decree that any booksellers must first present any tomes they acquire for sale to the King and Queen first. While there are rumblings of discontent across the kingdom, most of their subjects remember that until the daughter of their regents arrived, their lives were frozen in time. They allow the two some eccentricities, but Emma worries that one day, they will revolt. She learns about the arrangement her parents made with a neighboring kingdom when a young woman, Belle, arrives at their castle with a stack of books and a suitcase.

"I'm here to help," she announces, Emma's parents welcoming her warmly with embraces and thankful eyes.

Emma, more hesitant, holds back and extends her hand towards the young woman.

Grasping her hand delicately, Belle offers a small curtsey and, "Your Highness, your parents have invited me into your home to assist with your quest."

Emma responds, "I gathered that. The question is, who are _you_ to assist?"

Belle glances at the King and Queen, and Emma almost feels regret for positioning herself so harshly. But the truth is, she does not trust a single soul outside of her own kingdom – and even some of those souls within her kingdom. The Dark One could have spies anywhere.

The other woman eyes her carefully as she replies, "My name is Belle. My father is a simple Baron in the neighboring kingdom. We have, however, a great library. Your parents sent an emissary to our estate upon your return and I am only too happy to do my part."

Emma arches a brow in her direction, pleased by her words thus far, "And have you or your family any dealings, past or present, with The Dark One?"

As a blush skitters across Belle's cheeks as she replies, "No. No, of course not."

Emma's senses tingle with some manner of _awareness_ at the statement. _Lie, _her brain screams. _Lie. _With no evidence that proves the contrary of Belle's hesitant reply, Emma cannot dismiss her without injuring the accord between kingdoms. She does determine, nevertheless, not to trust the young woman with too many of her secrets.

**.**

That night the dreams begin. They are brief, in the beginning. She catches glimpses of a figure dressed all in black but she can never make out his face. She hears a whisper, her name floating silkily through the air.

_Emma._

_Emma_.

She wakes, racing heart, body thrumming with adrenaline. She hears his voice, dark and low, both threatening and seductive.

She worries.

She worries about the strain that this task has put onto her parents, their kingdom, and their people. She worries about the strain that this task has placed upon her own heart. She worries that she will not be able to free herself from The Dark One's grip, that all of her family's support will be in vain.

_It could be a paralyzing fear_, she thinks that morning, as she prepares for sword lessons with her father and the knights of the kingdom. It could be_, only if she allows the fear to control her actions. _She knows that she is afraid that day. Yet she still dons her uniform – breeches and boots, tunic and belt – and makes her way to the training circle near the armory.

The men have grown comfortable with her presence there (she is crown princess and thus allowed to bend any rules she desires for her own gain) though they remain adamant that she is not ready yet for a blade of steel. It frustrates her sometimes, this blend of protection and acceptance from the soldiers, as if she is someone precious and weak and yet also full of power and potential. She understands that it is just their way, their lack of understanding of her quest.

They think she is a pretty princess playing at fighting.

She's gambling for her very life.

On this particular morning, her father watches as she spars with Sir August, her father's favorite knight. Despite instructions from the King that she is not to be treated as princess, but knight, she can feel her opponent holding back. She watches his grip on the wooden blade, noticing the way that his arm doesn't pull as taut as it does when he spars with the other men.

"I am not made of glass," she spits at him, as their swords meet, clashing in front of their faces, as their bodies anchor to the ground until she feels her legs burning.

She glances down at his arms, after they jump apart and pull back to regroup. His arms still just a hair too loose for her comfort. As her frustration grows, she finds her stance more aggressive, her jabs more intense, and a fierce growl erupts from her lips.

They spar for several moments, swords clashing, until she reaches for the upper hand and grasps it, her duck and block maneuvering her into a position where the blade of her sword rests at the tip of his throat.

"Do you surrender, knight?" Her tone harsh as her breath continues at a rapid pace from anger, from frustration, from the intensity of their fight.

Though his eyes gleam with a new respect for her - they've taught her well, her father and his knights - he does not allow her to win so easily, as he bites back at her, "Never so easily, princess."

It happens suddenly – as it did that fateful night before – in a burst of white light. Until her wooden blade becomes gleaming silver, sharp. She stumbles with the power emitted and the blade quickly becomes lodged in the shoulder of her opponent.

Immediately apologetic, she slides the blade out from his skin, memorizing the sensation so her future bouts do not make her cringe. If she is to face this underworld king, she must be ready for whatever their battle entails.

"Merely a flesh wound, milady," Sir August brushes off her apology with the clasp of his uninjured hand to her shoulder, his grip tight and firm.

_Approving_, she thinks as he continues, "You'll make a fine warrior, milady."

But still, she worries. She is aware of magic, that she possesses powers that she does not understand. She knows that whatever she carries within her has great strength and power. She knows that she could wield this power with great effect, if she only had someone to help her understand the nature of her power.

**.**

A fortnight after her first dream, she opens a small red the small red book, title engraved in delicate gold lettering in the cover. She had ignored it for these past weeks, the dreams reoccurring nightly, increasing the sense of foreboding in her gut. At first, assuming that the small tome has been included in error. Nestled between two larger tomes with Elvish incantations and the detailed anatomy of ogres, the book beckoned her that morning.

_The Labyrinth._

As she flips through the pages, scanning the words and accompanying images, Snow – her _mother_, she reminds herself – enters the room. Her movements are hesitant, creating another small twinge of guilt within Emma's heart. She knows that she has been distant with Snow.

Since her return, she has found it much easier to converse with her father. His simple presence comforting in a way that Snow's is not. Since their waltz at her welcoming ball, and his continued guidance in the training circle, she and David appeared to have reached an accord regarding their relationship, one that she has not yet reached with her mother.

Ever fearful that her mother will start crying and never stop, Emma's words are always constricted by a tightness in her throat. Easily diagnosed as an excessive bout of nerves, she has vowed – alone in her room at night – to mend this perceived rift. By day, however, she finds it difficult to enact this plan. Her voice continues to catch in her throat, the words that she longs to say to her mother never seeming quite right. they coexist at meals and during the sessions where she sits at her parent's sides while receiving news and pleas from their subjects.

"I was thinking," her mother states, breaking through Emma's thoughts with a brief moment where their eyes meet and Emma glances away just as quickly. She begins again, as Emma can feel mother's continued gaze, "I was thinking that I could teach you archery."

"Archery," she repeats, pausing to reconsider her mother's expression. She raises her head, meeting the other woman's eyes and watches the shadows that form. Recalling the tales that the dwarves have shared with her regarding the battle for the kingdom, she considers the experiences this woman has – along with her father. "Archery sounds like an excellent idea."

At the light that forms around her mother, and the smile that begins to stretch her lips, Emma knows that she has just given a precious gift.

"I'll leave you to your reading. But, Emma," Snow pauses, "Tomorrow morning?"

Emma nods and Snow makes motion to leave the room.

"Wait!" Emma exclaims, not wanting this sensation of closeness to leave.

Her mother pauses and turns, slowly, a cautious expression accompanying her movements. "Yes?"

"I…" Her voice drifts, unsure of exactly how to phrase the request that she knows she must make, given the frightening nature of her dreams since her return and the incident with Sir August.

"My magic," she continues, "I need some assistance. I feel…as though…"

Her throat closes and she cannot complete the sentence until her mother rushes back to her side, clasping Emma's hands between her own, their warmth giving her the strength to finish.

She swallows, the words then tumbling out of her, "I feel as though I have no control over my powers. I know not when they will emerge next, and I fear what happens when they do."

She explains to her mother what happened during training, even though she's well aware that her parents keep no secrets between the two of them. She shares with her mother exactly when the magical shift occurred. She describes the heat of the bright light that accompanies such transformation. She describes the jangled nerves of the aftereffects of magic.

She does not share with her mother the dreams, and voice that haunts her - sleeping or awake - with its knowledge and its taunting. She does not share with her mother her fears that she has been given an impossible task. _Nothing is impossible_, she reminds herself fiercely. Not for her.

"Oh, Emma," her mother breathes, wrapping her arms around Emma as her voice whispers in her ear, "I know a fairy who may be of assistance."

"You do?" She hates how small her voice sounds - she is a warrior-in-training, she should be strong - but there is something so _right_ about allowing her mother to comfort her. Something missing that has fallen into place by allowing these small moments between the two of them.

"Yes," her mother responds, voice resolute, "But _after_ archery."

With those words, her mother releases her and takes her leave.

**.**

One week later, curled in a chair with only a candle flickering light across the pages of _The Labyrinth_, Emma begins to read the words. Tired of dreaming of the same voice, the same figure, a dark blur within her dreams, features undecipherable.

She's been drawn to this book since she first became aware of it. _It is time_, she thinks, _time to face whatever nightmares are found within._

Though the book is written as one would write a fairytale, she is riveted at the first mention of The Goblin King – the only mention she has yet to find in six months of searching. She stares at the text, her mind taking in the words as the words flash across the pages, interspersed between drawings of small creatures with small, sharp teeth, and the dangers found within the maze.

As she continues to read, her eyelids begin to ache and close on their own accord until she falls into a deep slumber. Body still curled in her chair, as the candle burns to the end of the wick and the light disappears with a faint wisp of smoke that swirls into the dark night air.

She dreams of the stranger again, but something shifts. Once again, she hears her name, the same dark voice calling for her. As with her last dream about Graham, she begins to sense a shift – that change between dreaming and waking – her consciousness bleeding into this world until she can see her surroundings with clarity.

She is standing in a field, lush and green, a wide expanse surrounded by trees in all directions. Across from her is the stranger, dressed head to toe in black – leather pants, high-necked shirt and vest, and boots up to his knees.

His eyes are blue – electric and almost glowing – and he stares at her in a manner that Emma is sure makes her feel uneasy well beyond a normal dream. Her nerves have not ceased their tingling. The very same tingling that she felt, she realizes, weeks ago in the training field.

This is no normal dream.

"Emma," the stranger says, his voice deep a low, her name a mere rasp of sound, not quite a growl.

Her reaction to his voice causes her to startle, body twitching just enough to make her voice shake as she asks, "You know my name. How? Who are you?"

He laughs, and she watches as his eyes flicker – up and down – calm and assessing, "Don't you know by now, love? I am him whom you seek."

_The Goblin King_.

The words rushing through her as if she were breathing them in like air. _This is the man she is supposed to kill?_ He is dark and dangerous, the way that his eyes watch her as if she is his prey and he the hunter, instead of the reverse. His eyes are sharp with knowledge, his body still with seemingly infinite patience as he merely watches her, taking in the every reaction her body shows.

She can see the sharp edges that shimmer around him, a darkness that surrounds his figure.

Suddenly her fate seems sealed to be forever in the monster's grasp. She feels a defeat deep within, in a way that she had not felt in the previous months. Emma wonders how she will accomplish her task. To kill the man standing in front of her, to kill a man as dangerous as he appears. To kill a man as if he was not a _person_.

She lifts her chin, attempting to emulate her parents at their royal bearing and exclaims, "You don't look much like a goblin, nor very terrifying."

He looks affronted at the notion, his body draws back and he tilts his head while narrowing his eyes, trying to read her – she can tell – and she realizes that she's in danger of giving away too much information.

"Aye, my imperious princess. I'm all too real for that. Haven't read very far in your book, have you? Well, you'll see, I'm not as bad as all that," he lifts a shoulder as he speaks, his body exuding indifference as he continues to watch her carefully.

The same sensation spreads across her body, the one that she felt when Belle spoke to her. Her body tingles with the word _Lie._ Something about him, his words or his expression, has sent her senses into overdrive and she knows that whatever else he might be, he certainly is not _good._

As she continues to watch him, neither speaking, cracks begin to appear in this aura surrounding his figure. What was once pure black begins to show hints of color as she reads a sadness within him, layered under the mischievous glint in his eyes. She notices the tiredness below the insolence of his posture – shoulder slightly dropping low, hip thrust out and a hand on his belt – looping through the leather that houses a long, curved sword.

When his eyes held hers, she felt that shift of awareness one more time – as the air between them began to feel thicker – suddenly a mist begins formation, swirling between their bodies.

She watches the surprise flicker across his features, forcing her concentration to the air between them. It is not metaphorical mist, but actual mist thickening the air between them.

Frightened, Emma's eyes snaps back to his.

"What is that?"

"I've no clue. Seems you hold more power than either of us imagined."

Before they can investigate further, she hears her name again but this time it is a light female voice. _Emma dear, wake up. Please, wake up!_

"I will take my leave now, princess," he says, no sneer to the word this time, and he leaves her with a promise, "I will visit again soon."

When she awakes gasping for air, she knows that it was not a dream, it was somehow _real_.

**.**

The next night, when he returns to her dreams, she asks him, "You don't like to kidnap babies do you?"

He sighs, dramatically, and then continues with a leer, so forced as to obviously be for her benefit. "No, I much prefer princesses."

He's standing with his arms crossed over each other, his legs apart, and he's staring her down. Trying to make her afraid, she thinks, or angry, as long as she _feels_ something. She is angry, she considers, as she watches him. However, she is not angry with him, this _Goblin King._ She is angry with The Dark One, she is even sometimes angry at her parents.

"Be serious," she admonishes, rolling her eyes, "My life is not a game, nor my continued existence a source for your amusement."

He has the good sense to morph his features into at least a semblance of guilt, but her read on his posture fails to discern true remorse.

"Apologies, love. Nevertheless, the premise of the question seems quite ridiculous. You have no child, no young sister or brother, and yet here I am, visiting your dreams. Not everything is as it seems, especially as relates to that blasted book."

She considers his words, her nerves screaming, _truth,_ the same as Belle's lie. She clasps her hands together, fingers twisting, unsure how magic responds in this dream realm, hoping she does not _explode_ with power.

"Just answer the question, Goblin King."

He flinches at the title, exclaiming, "Please, call me Killian," while sweeping into a mock curtsy.

She nods her assent, though considering the power that might transfer to him if she actually utters his name, she simply moves past name and title to refocus, pressing him, "The question?"

With another dramatic sigh, he replies, "No, I do not kidnap babies. Might I suggest that you review the text again. I did not kidnap that child, he was wished away by his sister."

Merely arching a brow in his direction, she holds grip on his eyes, seeking more truth, seeking the specific nature of the tether that exists between them since her summon, "Very well. At the very least, you could tell me why you have chosen now to visit me."

"I make no choices, princess. You have found the words. You have summoned me. I am at your mercy."

Her bodies tingles again – _lie, lie, lie _– it shouts to her. "Somehow I suspect that is not entirely true."

Instead of responding with the anger that she expected, he merely states calmly, "You'd be best served trusting your instincts, darling. But more than that, you must surmise on your own."

Suddenly, the wind in the clearing picks up, the fallen leaves from the forest swirl around her, mirroring the confusion that she feels coursing through her body. She is coming to realize, as she pieces together the events of her life - from the transformation of Graham, to her dreams, and finally the sword - she has control over the elements of the realms.

The strength of her anger in this moment concerns her.

_If these dreams are not, in fact, dream. If these moments are real. If they live within this space the same as in the realms, can they be injured in the dreamworld the same as the living?_

As she attempts to control the strength of her response, as she breathes - in and out in rapid succession until the spaces between inhaling and exhaling spread - she's struck with a thought. One that she is surprised, and angry, with herself for not realizing before.

There's a reason why _he_ forced this task upon her. There is a _link_ between them, the princess and the Goblin King.

She says it, out loud, voice clear and strong, _"He _did this to you, did he not?"

He arches a brow at her, sardonic and affected as usual, trying to mask shock and some other, more elusive emotion. But she can see it all, now. She can read almost everything beneath his surface. From the manner in which his hands spin his rings round his fingers when she's made him nervous, to the tone of his voice when he's hiding something from her, to the hidden frustrations that he covers with snippy words and lascivious winks.

As she's coming to expect from him, his words attempt to mask the truth as he replies, "Whatever gave you that notion?" Before his figure disappears into the forest, the first time that he has faded away before her dream ends.

It seems they both have secrets.

**.**

Her arms fatigued from sparring with the knights, she spends her evenings on those days reading, finishing _The Labyrinth_ in mere days. She reads the words again most nights, searching for hidden meanings, before she slips into dreams.

After their last confrontation, her Goblin King does not visit her dreams for weeks. That first night she is surprised, body exhausted from stringing bows with her mother, from aiming arrows into the trees. Her mind, drawn to the book but still afraid of its contents, leaves it for the evening. Instead, she traces the title of the book on the stand beside her bed and extinguishes her candles before slipping into an exhausted slumber. Her dreams silent for an evening, devoid of magic and kings from realms unknown.

She awakes, rested for the first time since he appeared.

During her first lesson with the fairy, Blue, she is hypnotized into a dream state. Guided by Blue, wielding the power of fairy dust in her wand, Emma begins to sense her own consciousness until she is no longer dreaming. Instead, her body becomes a presence within the dream as if it was as real as her waking world. Just as she experienced before, she is able to feel, to touch everything within her dream. The same clearing, the same woods as her other dreams present, the traces her hands along the trees. She hears Blue's voice through the fog between the dream world and the waking world, asking her what she feels.

She doesn't speak, but she considers the question, reveling in the sensation of the rough bark, spreading from the nerves in the tips of her fingers straight through to her brain.

_Good_, she hears the fairy's voice through her contemplation.

"You can hear that?" She asks aloud.

_This is your world, Emma. Your dream, your creation. You can manipulate anything within your sphere._

Emma examines her surroundings, at the green of the trees, of the empty clearing, where her Goblin King used to stand. She can hear his voice in her ears as she contemplates how to manipulate the scene next. She can hear his ideas in her head, and she closes her eyes.

A sword appears in her hand. Metal gleaming, the hilt simple but suiting her grip perfectly. She tests the weight of it with several swings and jabs, rotating her wrist, arms steady.

"Can I keep this?" She asks Blue, curious as the extent of her magic. _Does it transcend from the dream world to waking? How does she re-enter the waking world?_

The fairy replies, explaining that unless she invites another powerful being into the dreamworld, everything is hers to control. All she must do is decide to leave, and she will leave.

_I do not know, though, _she continues, _whether you may keep the sword outside the realm._

Emma blinks, and immediately awakes, finding herself back in the castle, Blue watching her carefully.

She holds the sword, the weight of it still solid in her hands. Glancing over at the fairy, she smiles and says, "I think I'll need more practice."

**.**

She alternates her time between the three - magic and sorcery, swordplay, archery.

He hasn't come to her in months, the small red book gathering dust on her nightstand. After a while, she refuses to open the pages. She shouts curses at him in her mind. She is weeks away from her ball, celebrating the twenty first year of her birth.

Her deadline.

She curses his silence, she curses her fate.

She vows that she _will_ succeed.

**.**

In the story, the young woman summons the Goblin King with words, wishing him to take her brother away from her world. The young woman's desires for peace and no responsibility fueling her power, a dark power at the beginning of her story.

This is not Emma's path. While dark, while her path might only end in one of two ways - the death of her opponent or her own recapture - all she feels is the weight of responsibility, and the magic that courses through her is born of light magic, unless Blue is not to be trusted.

She stares at her reflection in the mirror as her lady's maid dresses her hair, adorning the intricate braids with small jewels of light blue to match her gown. They have determined, her seamstress and her mother, to enhance her tale as the Swan Princess with her gown. With the feathers and beading, the gown imbues a lightness that she cannot feel on this evening.

If she does not succeed this very evening her life will be forever in the grasp of The Dark One.

She closes her eyes, as Blue taught her, attempting to slip into unconsciousness, into dreams that she can shape, dreams that used to summon him to her. A sharp pain of pinching hair draws her out of the meditative state quickly.

"I'm sorry, your highness," the young woman yelps, eyes downcast.

Emma tries to sooth her with soft words of acceptance, however, inside all she can feel is a boiling frustration.

_I wish the Goblin King would come to take me away, _she thinks.

There is a moment of clarity in her mind, as her surrounding react to the words. Gone is her lady's maid. Gone is her dress with heavy skirts and feminine frills. She remains in her room, the sun hidden by a dark cloud that passes across her windows, enveloping everything into darkness and shadow.

He materializes, standing in front of her in a flash of bright light.

"So, Goblin King, you have deemed me worthy of your presence again?" She strives for haughty princess, but fears she only sounds weak and girlish.

He laughs in return, giving a slight bow, "Aye, my princess. I am here now, at your service."

Giving a courtesy in return, as her mother taught her months ago, she takes in his black leather pants and billowing black shirt. But it's really his eyes that arrest her. Deep and blue. Glittering and cold. He wants her to know that he is the king of an underworld.

"You know, then," she says, "That the events of this evening determine my fate."

If he feels any hesitance about their roles in this drama, she cannot read it in his features. Instead, he stands tall, earring glittering and rings adorning his fingers, as he gestures between them.

"Alas, love, we find ourselves at an impasse. I cannot allow you to kill me."

"And I cannot allow myself to return to The Dark One's control."

"Unless –" he begins to respond, until his voice is cut off by the sounds of her parents outside her door, the darkness noted, both of them ready to sound the alarms if she remains silent for much longer.

"We are running out of time, if you don't want to be discovered," she says.

He still hesitates to speak, his eyes maintaining contact with hers, that elusive emotion flashing. The one that she could not name before, that she still cannot grasp.

"Unless you stay with me," he whispers.

"Stay with you?" She questions him, not understanding the draw that seems to be pulling her body towards his.

He holds a hand out to hers and says, "Yes. Come with me and be my queen."

"I will not leave my family," she replies, her eyes darting towards the door, watching as the handle turns, the urgency running through her veins as surely as her blood runs.

"Then," he says, voice still low, "Come to my land and if you can pass the tests of the Labyrinth, I will concede defeat."

She reaches out her hand, hovering over his, not touching yet, "You will concede, just like that?"

"Aye. You've my word on that."

She places her hand in his, with a nod of acceptance.

"I never said it'd be easy, love." His voice is dark and low as she feels her world slipping away.

"Now close your eyes, darling."

She does.

**.**

When her eyes open she circles around to take in her surroundings. Lush, green field, and in the distance, a towering, dark spire that juts into the sky. In between her and the tower appears to be a large maze. He stands next to her, so close that their hands could touch, fingers entwining as they did within her room.

"Welcome to my home, Emma," he says, voice quiet now, all masks from their confrontations stripped.

She does not respond as she peers around his body to the large clock placed on the other side of him, it's iron stand digging into the ground as if they were roots to a tree. Vines twining around the legs, up to its face. There must be a question on her face because he continues, "Time works strangely here," he says with a twitch of his lips, "Though I will be as fair as I can be. Under the circumstances, you'll understand if I'm not rooting for you to succeed."

"I understand," she replies, "Just as you'll understand that I will thwart you at every turn."

He smiles at her, and she imagines that in it she reads respect for her, as his hand grasps her chin, making it impossible for her to turn away from him.

"You have the power to change your fate," he implores her, "You can stay with me."

"That is impossible," she says in return, "I will return to my family. I will _win._"

He releases her, "So be it," he proclaims, "The Labyrinth is yours to navigate. If you can survive her horrors, I will surrender to you."

He walks away from her, down the hill, until he has almost disappeared from sight. She can barely hear his voice, but it carries across to her, a slight echo to his parting words, "By fair means or foul, I will convince you to stay, princess."

He disappears, and the clock that was standing in the ground shrinks, becoming smaller and smaller until it fits into her hand. She slips the device into her satchel, and she can feel it's ticking through the soft leather. Blue's words slip into her mind, unbidden, as she makes her way down to the maze.

_Be careful what you dream._


End file.
